


A Greater Compliment

by cassandraoftroy



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avengers Remix, Gen, Mission Fic, Non-Graphic Violence, Pre-Movie(s), Sexual Assault, Spies & Secret Agents, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 12:07:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1265962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassandraoftroy/pseuds/cassandraoftroy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha and Clint go undercover as a pair of honeymooning newlyweds in Greece while on a mission to bring down a mobster. When things go sideways, Natasha realizes that she has something more valuable than she ever expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Greater Compliment

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fools Decide](https://archiveofourown.org/works/524043) by [samalander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samalander/pseuds/samalander). 



> Many thanks to samalander, for providing such a great story to play in; I hope I've done it justice! And as always, thanks and love to M for beta-reading. All mistakes are my own.

"To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved."  
George MacDonald, _The Marquis of Lossie_ (1877)

The heavy bass line of the music from the club below pounded through the floor and up through her stiletto heels as she followed her escort down the narrow corridor. She counted doors – that one, with the fingerprint scanner, must be the office – as she was led to the end of the hall and into a private lounge. The décor was elegant, sumptuous – much more so than the honeymoon suite where she'd been staying for the past three nights. The woman she was tonight – the new Mrs. Natalie Baxter – would be suitably awed by the expensive art and the luxurious furnishings, so she made sure to coo admiringly and run her fingertips along the arm of the leather sofa as she took her offered seat.

Several men were already present in the room; the man she was here to meet and his bodyguards, she hoped. They were speaking to one another in Greek, and she strained to catch their words while feigning ignorance and unconcern; her persona did not know the language. The voice of the man wearing the gold ring, with slicked-back hair beginning to gray at the sides, confirmed her guess with its northern accent. Latsis. He was handsome enough, in a distinguished, old-world sort of way, if she hadn't known he was a drug smuggler and a slaver – Natalie Baxter would see little reason to regret accepting the "indecent proposal" he had suggested to her.

She accepted the flute of champagne another of the men offered her, pretending to sip before setting it down on the side table; she couldn't take the risk of being drugged now. At last, Latsis broke away from his associates and came to sit by her on the sofa, close enough to press his thigh against hers. "You are every bit as beautiful as my friend promised," he rumbled appreciatively, brushing a loose lock of hair from her face and caressing her cheek. "The things I would do with you in my bed..."

Canting her head down to look up at him through her eyelashes – and incidentally removing her cheek from the reach of his questing fingers – she replied, "Well, that's... I thought that's what you asked me here to talk about?" Her tone struck a delicate balance between seductive purr and abashed innocence.

"It was," he agreed gamely, "but I thought, perhaps, that rather than indulging the appetites of an old man, you might prefer a slightly different way to earn what I offered you."

"You're not an old man," she protested obediently, turning her body toward him – while keeping careful track of the bodyguards in her peripheral vision.

Latsis chuckled, a musical laugh that would sound friendly and inviting in a less dangerous context. "You are a flatterer," he accused lightly. "But even so, I have another offer that I suspect will be more to your tastes."

She blinked in feigned confusion. "What kind of offer?" A pause, hesitation. "Would I have to...?" Meaningful glance at the other men in the room, bodyguards whose heavily-muscled forms were only somewhat concealed by carefully tailored suits. In her lap, her neatly folded hands began to fidget, worrying at her newly-manicured nails. Her fingertips brushed the diamond ring on her left hand, lingering over it like a touchstone. "I don't know what my husband would say about that... I had a hard enough time getting him to go along with this much."

"Nothing of the sort, my dear," Latsis assured her, covering her fretting hands with his own large one in a gesture that was both reassuring and possessive. "I simply want you to take some property of mine back to America with you when you return home. Discreetly."

"Well, I..." Now that he had asked her to do something more blatantly illegal, she would appear more hesitant; he would have to court her – thus making his offer more explicit for the recording that was being made over her comm.

"Do not decide right away," he told her, forestalling her objections with an upraised hand. "Take the time to consider carefully." He gestured to one of his men, who rose from the table across the room and came forward, taking with him a nondescript brown leather briefcase. The man stood in front of them and placed the case on the coffee table in front of the sofa, opening it to reveal the neat, tightly-packed rows of bundled Euro notes, more money than Natalie Baxter and her husband would make in twenty years. He seemed to enjoy her awed gasp. "You could buy yourself a new home," Latsis cajoled, "travel around the world. Just imagine what you could do with all that."

She turned to look at him, eyes wide, tearing her gaze away from the money with apparent difficulty. Slowly, her head dropped into a nod. Latsis smiled, leaning in close to her face. She could read his thoughts in his eyes: with that single assent, she had made herself _his_. He nuzzled her hair, her cheek, the gesture possessive. "Tell me when you are leaving the island."

"S-Sunday," she stammered, "our flight leaves at eleven-thirty."

"Good," he crooned. Burying one hand in her hair, he began instructing her what she would do that morning, asking additional questions which she answered with submissive deference. Then Latsis pulled back, catching her gaze in his. "You remember that money you saw before, little one?" She nodded again, giving every indication of being under his spell. His voice turned low and gravelly. "You could double it."

She makes her eyes widen even more. "What... what do you want me to do?"

"I think you know." He reached for her, plunging his hand inside the low neckline of her dress, into the cup of her bra. All his gentleness and seduction had evaporated, replaced with the brutal domination of a man claiming what he viewed as his rightful property. He gripped her roughly, painfully, and his other hand made a fist in her hair.

Afterward, she would have liked to say that she weighed the risks against the demands of the mission and made a judgment call; it was what she had been trained to do long ago, and was what SHIELD trusted her to do now, even if they gave slightly more weight to her personal safety than her old handlers had. But the truth wasn't so calculated. A long time ago, she had made herself a promise, and someone else had made a promise to back her up – someone who was now listening on the other end of her comm line. There were things she didn't have do to anymore. Things she wouldn't accept ever again.

She struck Latsis, hard, across the face. In the space of a heartbeat, his expression shifted from lust to rage. This was not a man accustomed to being defied. This was a man who saw people – women – as objects to be owned, controlled, subjugated. He would kill her for this.

She drove two knuckles into the inside of his elbow, forcing him to release his grip on her hair, and then grabbed the arm and twisted it hard the wrong way. She heard the wet _snap_ of bone breaking.

The scrape of chairs against the floor told her that the bodyguards were rising to stop her. Grabbing Latsis by his tie, she pivoted and dragged him across her body, reaching into his jacket for the gun she had seen outlined beneath the tailored wool. Two rounds thudded into the mobster's chest as a pair of his guards failed to react in time. She killed those two first. The others tried to close the distance to reach her – one of them had the presence of mind to use the briefcase of Euros as a shield. Unfortunately the case wasn't big enough to protect his kneecaps; all he accomplished was making her waste a second bullet on him.

It was over in seconds. Seven rounds, five corpses. The mission was blown, but what they got on tape should have been enough to appease Fury. "Latsis is dead," she told her partner, knowing there would be no recriminations from him. "And the four guys in the room. Meet me out back, and call Coulson. We need out." She would have only seconds before more of Latsis's men came to investigate the gunshots. Shoving the still-warm corpse off her lap, she headed for the window.

* * *

The mission had begun four days earlier, on a helicopter flight to Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport in Atlanta. Natasha read the dossier and her cover ID on the flight; the mission window had opened suddenly, and many of the details were being handled while she was en route. Her partner had already arrived at the airport – even before she had seen the names for their cover identities, "Clinton and Natalie Baxter," she knew there was only one agent SHIELD would have partnered her with for this assignment, because _they_ knew there was only one partner she would accept.

Most of the agents they worked with assumed that her and Barton's close relationship had come about because he was the one who brought her in, which was partly true. Some of the recruits speculated that they were fucking – which wasn't. The reality was a lot messier than either answer.

Their first face-to-face encounter had ended in a standoff; he had already held her in his sights once and chosen not to take the shot, and the second time they stood squaring off with weapons leveled at one another and neither one willing to pull the trigger, Clint had jokingly offered to take her for coffee to pass the time until they decided whether or not to kill each other. She had been as surprised as he was when she accepted. Over espresso, Clint had explained who he worked for, told her that he thought there was a place in his organization for her, and fielded her concerns about becoming beholden to anyone else ever again. "SHIELD isn't like that," he'd assured her. "They won't ask you to do anything you think is wrong, and they won't ever use you like you don't matter." She didn't offer a reply, but let her skepticism show on her face. "All right, I'll make you a deal. If they ever do try something like that – force you to do something seriously wrong or try to sacrifice you like a pawn on a game board – I'll be there to back you up when you run away, or bring them down."

She'd had to cover her surprise at that with a sip of coffee, but she couldn't help asking the question. "Why?"

"Because I believe in SHIELD, but if they treated you or any other agent that way, they wouldn't be the organization I believe in anymore." He shrugged, as if he wasn't used to talking about issues like this. "And I think you deserve a chance to fight for something good."

A long moment had passed while she studied him curiously; he endured her scrutiny unself-consciously, not demanding anything from her, simply letting her take what she needed. Finally she asked, "How do you know that I won't betray you and your SHIELD to the highest bidder?"

"I don't," he said simply, meeting her gaze without challenge, "but I'm willing to trust you."

Trust. He said it like it was the simplest thing in the world, rather than a foreign country that she'd never visited and didn't speak the language. Trust hadn't been part of her world during her days in the Red Room. Obedience, fear, occasionally loyalty, but never trust. And afterward, the world had been divided into targets and threats; even her clients were sorted into one of those two categories. Now, here was some American with a bow strapped to his back and honest eyes, offering her something else.

She took it.

What she hadn't expected – but perhaps should have – was that in time, the promise of trust he'd extended drew forth an answer from her. Not right away; it took several missions for the itch between her shoulder blades whenever he stood behind her to go away. But eventually Natasha came to realize that she _knew_ , on a bone-deep level, that any time she truly needed it, Clint Barton would be there to back her up.

When the helicopter landed at the airport, she was already Natalie Baxter, and rushed into her new husband's arms where he was waiting for her at the airport food court. Then he handed over her carry-on and they walked hand-in-hand to their boarding gate.

* * *

She had a vehicle hot-wired by the time Barton made his way down from his sniper perch and joined her. He'd have called in a team to clean up the mess she'd left behind, and arranged their evac. All that was left to do was make it to their pick-up.

He waved her over into the passenger seat as he tossed his rifle case into the back. Natasha could've managed to drive without a problem, even after what had just happened, but she wouldn't complain about not needing to.

Clint didn't ask for an explanation, which spoke more of his faith in her judgment than perhaps she thought she deserved, but Natasha gave him one anyway. She watched the muscles in his jaw and shoulders tighten as she outlined, in brief, what had transpired in the club. His anger was obvious in every bowstring-taut line of his body – anger _for_ her, not _at_ her. He didn't like what a close call it had been, how near she'd come to needing his back-up, and how far away he would have been if she had.

Her glance fell on his hands, which were strangling the steering wheel, and she saw the wedding band that Clinton Baxter wore, the one that matched the diamond ring on her own finger. She touched it gently, rubbing her thumb across the stone. It didn't mean for them what it meant for the fictitious Clinton and Natalie, but what it did represent was something just as strong, if not stronger: partnership. A connection too fundamental and too deep for anyone – not Latsis, not SHIELD, nor anyone else – to break. That bond had been tested before, many times over their shared career, and would be tested in the future more brutally than either of them could guess, but it would endure. She trusted him too much to doubt it.

When they reached the evac point, Clint wordlessly offered to deal with the car; she waited for him under a cypress tree, watching the moonlight play on the surface of the water far below. For years after she'd escaped her handlers, she'd worked alone, and completed jobs as dangerous as this one or worse without any backup or support. At the time, she'd thought nothing of it – it was simply the way the world worked. Staring out over the water, she realized that she could never go back to that again. Knowing, _trusting_ that someone was watching her back had become too important to her. It was unfathomable that she had ever gone without it before, no matter how clearly she remembered those days.

As Clint came up to join her under the tree, she reached out a hand toward him. He took it, lacing his fingers with hers. The silence was heavy around them, and she found herself wondering if he was thinking the same thing she was – how their partnership had changed them both, and for the better. "Clint, I –"

But they'd never talked about it, never said the words aloud after that first day at that little cafe in Vienna when Clint Barton said he trusted her and promised he would always have her back. She didn't think she could say the words now, so she didn't try. She simply squeezed his hand, and turned to watch the glistening Mediterranean as they waited for their ride home. It was almost an hour before they heard the steady thrum of the approaching helicopter, and as she released his hand, Natasha managed to find a couple of words after all. "Thank you."

* * *

In some ways, the beach was an ideal location for a spy. There was plenty of open space to spot potential threats, everyone expected you to wear sunglasses so it was easy to conduct covert surveillance, and the dress code didn't allow would-be attackers much place to hide a concealed weapon. Of course, the reverse was also true, which made the beach one of Natasha's least favorite work environments. Lying in the sun made her feel exposed and defenseless – in addition to hot and sweaty.

When they had first arrived in Greece and Clint had suggested an afternoon on the beach as the perfect way to establish their characters, Natasha had expected to hate every moment of it. Taking her undercover persona as a newlywed to heart, she nagged him to buy the extra-large bottle of sunscreen on their way out of the hotel, and made him carry all their bags as they staked out a spot above the high-tide mark. To her immense relief, she found a man renting beach umbrellas, giving her a bit of blessed shade on the glaring beach.

Even under her tiny shelter, Natasha should have felt intensely ill-at-ease. Her gun was taped beneath her beach chair as accessibly as she'd been able to manage, but there had been no place for a spare clip. The sand was scorching, and it was next to impossible to run in flip-flops, and between the glare of sunlight off the water and the heat-shimmer rising up from the sand, visibility was suboptimal at best.

But somehow, as she passed Clint his much-coveted European Coke and settled bonelessly onto her chair in the shade, she found herself comfortable enough to play a little prank on her partner when he fell asleep in the sun (against her explicit advice to the contrary). Finding her name written in SPF 45 across his sun-reddened chest when he woke up would be much more effective than an "I told you so," and more fun besides. She felt her lips curl into a little smile at the thought; with Clint around, she could afford to think about _fun_ sometimes. Work was always less stressful when you had someone to trust.


End file.
